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Planetary Lives: Edward Warrulan, EdwardJohn Eyre, and Queen VictoriaIan HendersonPublished online: 09 Jun 2014.

To cite this article: Ian Henderson (2014) Planetary Lives: Edward Warrulan, Edward John Eyre, and QueenVictoria, English Studies in Africa, 57:1, 66-80, DOI: 10.1080/00138398.2014.916910

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66DOI: 10.1080/00138398.2014.916910 English Studies in Africa 66 (1)E-mail: ian.r.henderson@kcl.ac.uk © University of the Witwatersrand

pp 66–80

PLANETARY LIVES: EDWARD WARRULAN, EDWARD JOHN EYRE, AND QUEEN VICTORIA

Ian Henderson

Abstract

This article explores the relationship between Victorian and Ngaiwong ways of knowing by bringing a ‘planetary’ framework to bear upon an extraordinary meeting which took place at Buckingham Palace on 26 January 1846. To do so, it invokes the long history of the Antipodes; deploys, modifies and comments upon methodologies for conceiving and analysing ‘world literature’ by Americanist Wai Chee Dimock; and engages with the role of the imagination in Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s concept of ‘planetarity’.

Keywords: Australia, Aboriginal, Antipodes, world literature, planetarity

IntroductionOn Monday, 17 December 1844, ‘quite a gala day’ ensued at Port Adelaide in the British colony of South Australia: the 408-ton barque Symmetry was taking passengers for England via Cape Town (‘Port Adelaide’ 2; ‘Mails’ 2).1 The usual ‘excitement’ of a sailing, though, ‘was materially increased’ by the presence of three Aboriginal Australians who were also ‘proceeding to England’, and who had attracted ‘upwards of one hundred’ ‘natives ... to say good-bye to their old companions’ (‘Port Adelaide’ 2).2

First in importance in this excited crowd was Ngaiwong elder Tenberry. His fame in helping foster ‘amicable relations’ between European settlers and the ‘once hostile, and much-dreaded tribes of the Murray, Rufus, and Darling Rivers’ was already well established in Adelaide when the Symmetry set sail (‘Aborigines’ 108). As the Illustrated London News would put it, ‘it is to his influence and co-operation that [Europeans], in a great measure, owe the peaceful occupation of the Murray River’. Braithwaite, Gara and Lydon have also highlighted Tenberry’s work as mediator between settlers and the several culturally distinct groups of Aboriginal people in the region.3 But, as their work suggests, the fact that Tenberry had also united these several ‘tribes’ suggests an authority born of something more than mere submission to the invaders. We can,

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moreover, read respect for Tenberry’s strategies and wisdom in the presence of a crowd who had travelled over one hundred kilometres to be at the Port, ‘the children in drays and the men and women on foot’ (‘Port Adelaide’ 2).4 For Tenberry also had a personal interest in the Symmetry: on board bound for England was Warrulan, his ten-year-old son.5

In this regard, the ‘natives’ were present to witness a transfer of responsibility for Warrulan’s care from Tenberry to Bedfordshire-born ‘Australian traveller’, Edward John Eyre (‘Aborigines’ 108). Eyre was himself famous in the colony for his extraordinary – though notoriously fruitless – expeditions into the South Australian interior and along its southern coast to Albany in Western Australia (Dutton; Carter). He was also known for his relatively benign attitude towards Aboriginal Australians: he had formed a close if cautious working relationship with guide Wylie during his expeditions, despite the murder by two other Aboriginal men in the party of John Baxter, a former convict from County Down who had also accompanied Eyre (Braithwaite et al. 168). In October 1841, Eyre was appointed Resident Magistrate and Protector of Aborigines at Moorunde (Braithwaite et al. 166; Dutton chapter 9), a reward of sorts for his efforts as an explorer. It was in Moorunde that Eyre came into contact with Tenberry and first put into practice his ideas about the ‘management’ of ‘native’ peoples (discussed further below). And it is surely Eyre also who ensured that Tenberry’s reputation was appropriately acknowledged in the Illustrated London News.

In this article I will argue that Tenberry was sending Warrulan to England with Eyre as an extension of a long-term project of protecting and leading his people through negotiation with the settlers.6 This assertion also problematizes any ‘default’ reading of Warrulan’s life that renders him ‘simply’ an early casualty of the ‘Stolen Generations’, a term used in present-day Australia to denote those Aboriginal children who were forcibly removed from their parents as part of colonial and national administrations’ policies of ‘assimilation’.7 It is a default position I share, having ‘grown up’ as a white-settler historian of Australian culture between 1987 and 2008, when issues relative to present and past ‘Stolen Generations’ dominated the politics of race in the country.8 I would hardly wish to divest myself of this first truly ‘postcolonial’ mode of white-settler Australian retrospection, but in it Warrulan’s powerlessness as a ‘stolen’ child is underscored and assured. I want rather to stretch my imagination beyond the perspectives forged by my scholarly upbringing, developing thereby different ways of framing Warrulan’s life which, while never underplaying the oppression he experienced as a colonized subject, may present him as something other than a victim.

Tenberry’s potential motives on board the Symmetry are first evinced by a ‘close-up’ view of his actions: in his immediate historic and local context his decision to part with his son contrasts those of other local Aboriginal parents. A few days after the Symmetry set sail, a correspondent of the South Australian Register visited ‘a Sunday School for Aboriginal children at Walkerville’, near Adelaide, run for the last year by Anthony Forster, a committed nonconformist Christian who was also on board the Symmetry (Braithwaite et al. 169, 182; Lynravn). The correspondent noted: ‘The number of children at the time of my visit was about seventy; but has since diminished, in consequence of parents decoying them away when they make a trip to the Murray’ (F. 3). Forster, meanwhile, was also accompanying a young Aboriginal Australian to England; a boy from a tribe ‘contiguous’ to Warrulan’s, but unlike Warrulan, he had ‘neither father nor mother alive’ (‘Aborigines’ 108).9

In contrast it seems Tenberry was willingly – I would say purposefully – sending one of his own sons away with Eyre. In the ‘close-up’ view of this moment, then, the crowd of ‘natives’ bear witness to Eyre’s undertaking wider and ongoing obligations to Tenberry’s people when

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he accepts guardianship of Tenberry’s son. And this also helps us imagine how, for Tenberry, sending Warrulan might really have been about the expectation of his return; the young man would bring with him strategically advantageous insight into the ‘home’ culture of the invaders.

It is a reading which, while emerging first from a ‘close-up’ view of the Symmetry, becomes, as I will show, the more plausible the wider the framing of Warrulan’s biography. At the same time, a frame-widening of global proportions is itself impelled by the exemplary ‘planetarity’ of Warrulan’s ‘symmetrical’ life.10 Just under half of it was lived in the global south: born at the moment of first contact between white settlers and his own Ngaiwong people, he would have begun (but not completed) the long process of initiation into Ngaiwong Knowledge. In the global north, meanwhile, after 12 years of schooling, apprenticeship and employment as a skilled labourer, his life would end in Birmingham, applying the working man’s knowledge of the industrial global north. In the rest of this article, then, I will invoke the planet in two ways, while honing that excessive ambition by focusing on just one – albeit extraordinary – encounter in Warrulan’s later life.

The first way in which I will invoke the planet is by deploying methodologies developed for conceiving and analysing ‘world literature’ by Americanist Wai Chee Dimock. Hence I will deploy increasingly large ‘scales of aggregation’ (Dimock) to the meeting which, as the term suggests, will have the effect of drawing the nominally opposed participants in it closer together. This involves invoking larger and larger ‘domains of evidence’ (Dimock and Buell 7), here labelled successively Imperial, Colonial-National, Christian-Cosmic and Planetary. Space-time coordinates appropriate to each of these domains might be specified, but any sense of chronological sequencing is problematized by accepting the ‘domains’ in terms developed by Dimock, that is, accepting them as heterarchical, coexistent and nested ‘sets’ (Dimock and Buell 4), each creating provisional readings of this meeting, none of which lays claim to absolute discretion, priority or truth. As such, the domains constitute those coexisting ‘asynchronous temporalities’ that, for Terry Smith, define ‘contemporaneity’ (9) and which, in Dimock’s terms, populate the ‘deep time’ of ‘planetary’ history (Through).

At the same time I qualify Dimock’s methodology and terms by concentrating on issues of the imagination, acknowledging thereby a much older theory of the planetary thinking – that of the Antipodes – a discourse of the global north in which peoples and spaces of the global south were imagined. The impact of the history of European imagining of the south on the claiming of Aboriginal Australian countries for the British crown is seldom seriously considered for its own sake. Hence, overall my work has been influenced more by histories of fantasy voyages to the Antipodes (see, for example, Fausett; Arthur) than by histories of Australian settlement and exploration (with the exception of Carter).11 However, both Fausett and Arthur argue that the ‘imaginary’ voyage to the Antipodes eventually disappears in the face of discoveries in the global south and of scientific modes of writing (Arthur 134; Fausett Writing 6–9).12 I work with the premise, instead, that the history of the Antipodes continues through the invasion, reterritorialization and settlement of Australian Aboriginal nations from the late eighteenth century to the present. In my wider research (see Henderson ‘Uncommon’) it is this history that is responsible for the figure of the Australian Aboriginal coming to stand in the global north – over the course of the nineteenth century – for the ‘mental lives of savages’ (Freud); and for Aboriginal peoples being thought to be stuck in a perpetual process of unknowingly projecting their own dreams as reality, the latter being a gross underestimation of the epistemologies of the Australian global south that has weakened all our ways of knowing. Here I am rather venturing the methodological gains of framing social and political phenomena in Australian history as

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events of the imagination; stretching my own imagination in the interest of trying to intuit – from the outside – the contours of Ngaiwong thought in modernity.

The EncounterThe Symmetry arrived at Deal in Kent on 11 May 1845 and anchored at Gravesend the next day (‘Ship’; ‘Shipping’). Just under nine months later, on 26 January 1846, Warrulan was presented by the new Colonial Secretary, W. E. Gladstone, to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg and Gotha at Buckingham Palace in London (Diary 393). Alongside Warrulan were Pangkerin,13 another ‘South Australian’ boy also aged between eight and ten, and Eyre himself, nominally guardian of both the Aboriginal boys. This was a remarkable meeting by any account and it was covered by the Illustrated London News: ‘Her Majesty appeared much pleased with the general appearance and manners of these youthful representatives of her subjects at the antipodes’ (‘Aborigines’ 108).

I want to use the humans in this meeting instrumentally: I mean I will use Victoria and Warrulan in particular, facing one another, as a kind of tableau of the imagination. I am interested, then, in her imagination of his imagination; and in the function of my own imagination in thus imagining them both. Hence my purpose in building a planetary framework for this meeting is to suggest a reading of Warrulan’s actions which is underpinned by a power of imagining that was both planetary in its scope and as future oriented and ambitious as anything Victoria or Albert might conceive.

But in the article, Warrulan’s and Pangkerin’s responses to this meeting emphasize their shared, and thereby racialized, failure of imagination:

They had, a few days previously, seen the Queen going in procession to open Parliament, surrounded by carriages and troops, and with all the parade and pageantry of Royalty. When, therefore, they saw a very young person dressed like any other lady, but with few attendants, they could not believe it possible that it could be the same Queen. (‘Aborigines’ 108, italics in the original)

This ‘failure’ on the boys’ part is contrasted in the article with the ability of both the Queen and Prince Albert to ask ‘numerous questions respecting them’, suggesting their own superior intellects and methods for the pursuit of knowledge. Indeed the technologies and practices comprising that pursuit were evinced in the very paper in hand, in the Illustrated London News, which allowed its readers to ‘see’ the Queen and Warrulan (an engraving of the young boy also appeared in the article), access Buckingham Palace and even travel to the ‘antipodes’, while never forgetting they were not, actually, in those places at all. Instead, they ‘imagined’ such scenes via a managed engagement with marks on a page.

Domain Of Evidence: ImperialThe most self-evident domain of evidence operating in the Illustrated London News is imperial, marked firstly by the presence of the Queen and her Secretary for the Colonies, and secondly by the date of the meeting: 26 January 1846. The significance of the latter goes unremarked by the Illustrated London News, but on that day, 58 years earlier and half the globe distant from London, the country belonging to Warrulan’s people had been formally declared a possession of Victoria’s grandfather, George III – living representative of the British Crown – by Captain

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Arthur Phillip, a London-born naval officer, who was standing on the banks of a harbour in Eora country, over 600 miles to the east of Ngaiwong territory. Thus an imaginary hand again swept over the land of Warrulan’s ancestors, and the myriad countries belonging to thousands of others, to trace an imaginary line: the western limit of ‘New South Wales’. Further acts of the British imagination occurred in the first decades of the nineteenth century as several coastal colonial outposts were established in other Aboriginal nations of the region. In these ways, those who arrived in Aboriginal countries – convicts, officers, marines, free settlers, sealers, traders and adventurers – brought northern imaginings to bear upon meanings made of Aboriginal spaces in the global south.

As ‘representatives of ... the antipodes’ at Buckingham Palace, Warrulan and Pangkerin were therefore framed first and foremost in the Illustrated London News as specimens of British imaginative power; the British imagination had invented them firstly by thinking to annex their southern countries (rendering them Antipodeans) and secondly by thinking to fetch them here from there (making them representative of the Antipodes in the global north; representatives of an ‘other’ apparently submissive imaginative force). This is not to neglect the physical effects of such imagining: thousands upon thousands of Aboriginal men, women and children have died of it; and the crimes that occasioned their deaths have forged an absence also of men and women who would have been their descendants in our world today. But in the Illustrated London News only as a second thought might Warrulan and Pangkerin be considered as ‘real’ individuals belonging to identifiable indigenous nations and entangled in social, cultural and economic relations with local settlers; entangled, that is, in processes of colonial realization.

Domain Of Evidence: Colonial-NationalNorthern imagining of southern spaces were neither unified nor unresisted in colonial New South Wales. But notwithstanding internal conflicts, settlers in the main coastal outposts imagined inland spaces as their own: ‘heroic’ explorers and surveyors spearheaded trade routes centred on the original landfall (though one should not forget ‘sealers and drovers, travellers and outcasts who often preceded the explorer’ [Macintyre 58]). When imagined interior space was satisfactorily ‘realized’ in this way – mapped out with provinces, landholdings and roads – it could then feasibly be separated from NSW to become individually administered through London as its own ‘colony’.

When Warrulan and Pangkerin met the Queen, Eyre also had plans for how Aboriginal people might ‘fit’ into the realized Antipodes. His Journals, published five months earlier in August 1845 (Dutton 166–167), included ‘an account of the manners and customs of the Aborigines and the state of their relations with Europeans’ in which he made several proposals for the amelioration of state and social policies towards Aboriginal Australians, all of them resting on a paradigm of their careful ‘management’ (Eyre 1 vol 1. x–xii). Eyre acknowledged that many saw Aboriginal Australians as ‘unteachable’ (2 vol 2. 154), but recognized these opinions were formed of a people reacting to the maltreatment they had experienced under colonialism. He further articulated the illogicality, given their circumstances, of subjecting Aboriginal Australians to an unknown and mystifying British law. Indeed Eyre introduced, in the opening chapter of his ‘account’, not ‘traditional’ beliefs and practices (those came later), but the situation of Aboriginal Australians within the ‘real’ experience of colonial modernity, including providing documentary support for the violence to which they had been subjected.

But what is most striking for today’s reader is the sheer recognizability of Eyre’s final proposals for the ‘management’ of Australian Aboriginal peoples, resembling as they do those

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disastrous policies brought to reality by successive colonial administrations and, post-1901, ‘national’ governments of the Commonwealth of Australia. These include: the removal of Aboriginal Australians away from towns or off traditional land into established stations where they could be supervised by policemen and registrars working under a missionary or a Protector; the bureaucratic control of all their movements; the provision of rations; the removal of children into schools and their strict containment from parental influence (‘parents should never be allowed to withdraw the children, contrary to their wishes, after having once consented to allow them to remain there’); the teaching of children exclusively in English; and the binding of those who have completed school into apprenticeships (the young men ‘in the service of settlers, as shepherds or stockkeepers’ [Eyre 2 vol 2 489]).

Knowing the future – the consequences – of Eyre’s proposals helps position Warrulan’s presentation to Queen Victoria within an Australia-wide ‘national’ framework. Here, 26 January 1846 becomes a prototype for the twentieth-century’s ‘Australia Day’, a significant celebration within the Commonwealth of Australia since the 1930s (if not one that goes unchallenged by Aboriginal activists) through which those ‘First Landing Day’, ‘Anniversary Day’ and ‘Foundation Day’ anniversaries celebrated in the colonies from the early nineteenth century – and here marked at Buckingham Palace itself – became mere precursors in the nationalist imaginary (Doyle). Within this domain, moreover, Eyre’s and others’ plans for Warrulan achieve a secular import: he is to be trained in Britain as an example of integration within a predominantly white culture through benevolent management away from his parents. So if Eyre’s proposals were, at least in part, forged in faith with universalist Christian doctrine (as discussed below), their formation also out of his actual experience in South Australia seems more potent in the ‘proto-nationalist’ development of direct government supervision of Aboriginal missions, with its ultimate recourse to scientific theories of race. In this light, and with hindsight, Warrulan appears, at his presentation to the Queen, as one whose life is doomed to model later social policies that set the genetic ‘absorption’ of the Aboriginal population by the white majority as a condition of progress for the Australian nation.

However, Warrulan’s own experiences may counteract such theories. At the end of the same year he met Queen Victoria, Eyre ‘was appointed by Lord Grey ... to be the Assistant-Governor of New Zealand’ and Warrulan was left in the care of Dr Thomas Hodgkin, Secretary of London’s Aborigines’ Protection Society and a high-profile member of the Society of Friends (‘Edward’ 49). Warrulan’s ‘good conduct’ thereafter gained him an English education at the Quaker-run ‘agricultural school at Sibford, in Oxfordshire’. He was next able to divert his sponsors’ expectations that he pursue agriculture or carpentry (‘Edward’ 50), becoming instead ‘an inmate of Thomas Dumbleton’s family, of Banbury, to learn saddler and harness work’. He left there to work ‘in the large harness manufactory of J. Middlemore, Birmingham’ (‘Edward’ 50). Warrulan was therefore carving out a career in an advanced industrial works when, in September 1857, while returning from ‘a pleasure trip to London ... awarded by J. [James] Middlemore to his work-people’, the young man ‘was taken ill from exposure in the railway train’ (‘one of the passengers in the railway train refused to close the window, though he respectfully urged it’) and died on 23 October 1857 (‘Edward’ 51, 53).

Domain Of Evidence: Christian-CosmicIf his obituary’s account of his last words is accurate, Warrulan had wholly absorbed the Christian beliefs of his supporters before he died:

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‘Then you know that Christ died for you?’ ‘Yes; and not for me only, but for the whole world.’‘My hope is in the Savior and His promises. My Saviour is always around me; I am happy on my bed; I am happy on my couch; my Jesus strengthens me:’ He frequently alluded to his father, and wished to go to Australia to tell him how good his Saviour was to him, and to his wish that he, too, should come to Jesus, and partake of His love.‘I have had some sweet sleep. Yes,’ he said, ‘I have been asleep in Jesus.’ D. [Deborah] Hill continues: ‘His hands were frequently clasped, as though in prayer, when we could not understand what he said.’ ‘The angels are around my bed. I want to soar away;’ ‘The white robe; oh, the white robe!’ (‘Edward’ 53–54)

Warrulan expresses faith through affirmation of his personal relationship with ‘his Saviour’, whose centrality both to his own (Warrulan’s) life and to the history of the cosmos is affirmed. Redemption from the Fall, after all, remains the purview of God, through the intercession of his Son, and is sited, ultimately, at the Second Coming, if prefigured in the individual’s seeking forgiveness and subscribing to Christian belief. That is, an individual’s prayer for forgiveness is ‘really’ located in the omnipresence of God as articulated through Auerbach’s famous description of the ‘figural interpretation of history’ (74). Thus the personal, historical act of the prayer for forgiveness is fulfilled after death and after the Second Coming; though its meaning is really eternal.

This paradigm can also lend events in imperial history cosmological import. The discovery of gold, for example, was celebrated in providential terms by Charles Reade in his ‘Australian’ novel It Is Never Too Late to Mend (vol 3 35–43). For Reade, technological development and the commodities wealth generated by the imperial annexation of lands occur in earthly temporality, but in the cosmological viewpoint they are part of ‘timeless eternity’, they are Providential and their meaning is divine.

In my Buckingham Palace tableau, the shackling of British imperial history to Providence can be located in Queen Victoria’s very body. For proponents of British Israelism, among them members of the Royal Family, she was the direct descendant, down Irish and Scottish lines, of the Kings of Judah. Victoria was also related, via Anna, the daughter of Joseph of Arimathaea, to Anna’s cousin, the Virgin Mary. In this view Victoria was leader and guide of a chosen people, whose continuity and prosperity prefigured, by stepping out, the ultimate realization of Providential design. The Victorian era witnessed a boost in this long-standing myth with actual family trees drawn up by various investigators (see Glover and Milner for examples).

Within the Christian cosmic domain of evidence the whole earthly sphere – and all earthly history since the Fall – therefore resides between Warrulan and Victoria, signifying the belated possibility that the former’s people can be led by the latter’s into God’s grace. The last discovered and most degraded of peoples are now joined to those whose imperial success at the very least suggests its Providential purpose and at most asserts them actually to be God’s Chosen Ones, as embodied by the direct descent of their Queen from Israel’s kings. This also lends the meeting eschatological connotations. For the first time in history, a people has both the technology to make physically possible and the destiny metaphysically to justify an empire that covers ‘the whole world’. When gold will finally bring the British to the Antipodes in droves, the prosperity of the Chosen will be assured and the planet finally circumstanced for the Second Coming.

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Domain Of Evidence: PlanetaryLet me turn now from planetary meanings lodged in Christian cosmology to those derived from science regarding the planetary migrations of our species.14 Palaeoanthropology of the last two decades tells us our species rose only about two hundred thousand years ago in the south of Africa; what is more, at some point we were reduced to a group of less than 10 000 in number, making us, as a species, and despite our leaching out over the entire planet, genetically homogenous to a remarkable degree.

The subsequent genetic superficiality of racial differences in the new palaeoanthropology presents a dramatically altered picture of Warrulan’s and Victoria’s meeting, all previous domains of evidence placing them at extremes of human anatomical and cultural difference, laying groundwork for their peoples being considered different species in the later nineteenth century. In fact, the common ancestor of Warrulan and Queen Victoria lived as little as 60 000 and certainly no more than 160 000 years ago, possibly in central Asia (if around 60 000 years ago), the Middle East (if less than 90 000 years ago) or in Africa (if more than 90 000 years ago) (Stringer and McKie 133). She did not look like a contemporary European, Arab, Australian or African, but probably had ‘medium brown’ skin (Kingdon in Stringer and McKie 154). And ‘despite’ her ‘physical modernity’, unless she was living in the south of Africa less than 100 000 years ago, it is ‘unlikely’ she ‘behaved as humans’ do today, in terms of the symbolic nature of our communications and material culture, a point to which I will return (Tattersall 103). What is significant for now is that possibly for centuries, and not that long ago, the ancestors of the human boy born Warrulan, son of Tenberry of the Ngaiwong people, and the human girl born Alexandrina Victoria – Alexandrina, after whom the lake near Warrulan’s country was named by settlers – daughter of Prince Edward, the Duke of Kent and Strathearn, and of Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, looked and acted exactly the same.

But at some point Warrulan’s and Alexandrina’s ancestors diverged. After one such split with Warrulan’s ancestors, over hundreds of generations, Victoria’s ancestors shifted north and west into Europe (Tattersall 96). The Neanderthals they encountered became extinct 27 000 years ago and the whole of Europe was settled by Homo sapiens around 5 000 years later. However, the last glacial maximum (19 000–20 000 years ago) forced peoples into southern refuges. As this ended, they began to expand outwards again. From 6 700 years ago, Alexandrina’s forebears were increasingly likely to have been farmers who have kept domesticated animals. Moving into the time of historical records we can begin to treat Alexandrina as a descendent of Germanic peoples who moved southwards from Scandinavia to the borders of the Roman Empire at the dawn of the Common Era.

We are then in the purview of William Addams Reitwiesner, an amateur genealogist, who has traced the family trees of several public figures and has investigated the current British Royal Family in pursuit of their ‘ethnicity’, leading him to conclude that European Royals can be considered a separate ethnic group. The only way they differ from other ethnic groups is that they are not geographically discrete, but in other respects they meet all the qualifications of an ethnic group: their shared rituals, their shared language(s), etc., and (most significant from a genealogical/genetic perspective) their mating habits. (paragraph 11)

Indeed Alexandrina was the descendent of generations of aristocrats from among the Saxons and then the Holy Roman Empire. Relatives of the Holy Roman Emperor fed

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into the House of Hanover, whose Prince-Elector became George I of Great Britain and Ireland in 1714; he was Victoria’s great-great-great grandfather.

Now, as Peter Hiscock writes, DNA evidence suggests all living Aboriginal Australians are descended from a woman who lived between 50 000 and 90 000 years ago: it is her forebears who had parted from Alexandrina’s, as Homo sapiens spread from the Middle East through southern and into south-eastern Asia over a period of 20 000 to 30 000 years from around 90 000 years ago (26). In south-east Asia Homo sapiens met other human species, though these quickly became extinct. Their arrival in Australia, as Michael Chazan notes, ‘predates the arrival of modern humans in Europe by at least 10 000 years’ (145).

Homo sapiens did not, of course, arrive in ‘Australia’, even as that place is designated in palaeoanthropology: they arrived in ‘Sahul’, a name whose unfamiliarity disrupts the teleology of nation stored in its alternative name, Greater Australia (see Earle and also Ballard). It refers to the continent formed in the last glacial maximum by present-day mainland Australia, New Guinea, some other surrounding islands and Tasmania; these were separated only at the end of the last glacial period approximately 10 000 years ago (see ‘Explore SahulTime’). Despite the lower sea levels in the last glacial maximum, Sahul was never joined to Sunda, ‘the archipelago that took in Malaysia, Sumatra, Borneo and Java’, meaning there was always a considerable stretch of deep water which Homo sapiens had to cross to reach Sahul (Macintyre 7). In 1977 anthropologist Joseph Birdsell proposed two possible routes to Sahul, though both entailed considerable deep-water crossings (Hiscock 21).

Whatever the motivation for making the crossing,15 for James O’Connell and Jim Allen the technical challenges of the crossing entangle the ancestors of Australian Aboriginal peoples in the history of the ‘great mental leap’, the process whereby humans entered into symbolic thinking, used sophisticated language and produced symbolic artefacts. There is not the archaeological record of the said artefacts that there might be, however; which may be a matter of demography or a reason to question why artefactual evidence is a necessary sign of an intellectual life. Indeed, for my purposes O’Connell’s and Allen’s argument chimes with the remarkable intellectual quality of Indigenous Australian Knowledge at the time of European contact; its expression not so much as in artefacts as in the earth itself.

This is not to say (i) that eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Aboriginal Australians did not produce material manifestations of a symbolic culture, far from it; nor (ii) that their culture in this period was as it had always been since Homo sapiens arrived in Sahul. Rather it is to suggest the interpretative power of Indigenous Australian Thought as it projected in the form of the ‘real’ human-altered environment of the Australian landscape: everything and every natural and human action was and is inlaid with intellectual meaning within these epistemologies.16 It is to look to the landscape of Australia as an interface for ‘cognitive capacity’, one that renders the world materially real; that, in an informed regard, produces further knowledge; that is contemporary (it continues to make real meaning); and that was and is sustainable over long periods of time. The land ‘holds sense’; it is readable to those in the know; and its relevance to and development through planetary contemporaneity persists.17

In sum, then, within some few thousand years our species had forged living cultures all over Sahul, including the spaces Tenberry would know, cultures that saw their countries through extraordinary climate change, which lived through cataclysmic moments in their own political histories, which developed a plethora of the world’s great intellectual cultures, whose collective

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work in the global south amounts to an amazing efflorescence of mind that worked its thinking into and as the contours of the Sahullian earth.

And yet nothing was quite like the encounter Tenberry would have to negotiate with the arrival of white settlers in his country. Even so, he was clearly a remarkable man who confronted this potentially cataclysmic new situation head on, developing strategies of his own for ensuring his people’s welfare and prosperity: he intervened in settler visions with his own plans for the future. Tenberry’s reputation suggests he was adapting his own expertise in this knowledge system to a remarkable new situation. His ability to translate ‘traditional’ knowledge to the current crisis is surely the source of his authority at the time of Warrulan’s departure. And if Warrulan could not have been initiated into anything like the degree of his father’s knowledge, by going with Eyre he was primed to gain something Tenberry would never achieve: actual experience on the other side of the world; a truly planetary life.

PlanetarityThus Warrulan emerges from our ‘planetary’ reading as a young man initially raised in a system of knowledge that had developed over tens of millennia of lived experience in Sahul and in the continent we now call Australia …. And as a man who maintained this knowledge while in Britain. For the fact that he often mentioned his father and his people when extremely ill is not simply a matter of childhood memories resurging in a crisis, but rather suggests that his sense of place in Ngaiwong kinship and epistemology was with him until he died. Added to this, his ten years in Britain had informed him deeply about the way the British thought, worked and lived, as evinced in the fact that he became a skilled worker in Birmingham. That he died young and without returning to South Australia is no reason for us to overlook the significance of this life as an expression of Ngaiwong modernity, an extension and development of his father’s own.

Hence placing the Illustrated London News article in a planetary domain of evidence has now presented us with two Homo sapiens, a twenty-six-year-old woman and a ten-year-old boy, united by their shared ‘recent’ history of human migration, long-lost relatives restored. This also throws into relief the extraordinary difference of their personal perspectives on mid-nineteenth-century planetary life. Alexandrina’s position would, throughout her life, give her privileged access to increasingly vast quantities of writing and images from all around her ‘empire’, but she would travel physically no further than Germany. By contrast, when she met Warrulan, he had already actually experienced life on both sides of the globe and had been immersed in a culture his father was adapting to new waves of global migration. While this reading has worked by holding in strategic abeyance the differences between Alexandrina and Warrulan when they met at Buckingham Palace – the distinctions of ‘rank’, class, race, age and gender which contributed to a grossly uneven balance of power between them – in doing so it has also avoided reinscribing limitations to the meaning of Warrulan’s life imposed by ‘imperial’ and ‘colonial-national’ domains of evidence, domains which also foreground such distinctions in the first place. The ‘planetary’ domain – not least because its sheer scale diminishes differences nonetheless undeniable on the ground – instead releases Warrulan’s biography as much into the realm of the modern as Victoria’s, their meeting a remarkable resolution of human migrations spread over the last 90 000 years, the juxtaposition of their epistemological differences – their greatly divergent knowledges of being in the world – now a springboard for strange visions of a planetary future.

In Death of a Discipline (2003), Spivak champions a ‘new’ discipline that is to be the scholarly harbinger of planetarity – ‘a permanent from-below interruption’, ‘the irony of globalization’ –

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one that draws into new relations cultures of the global north and south by greatly extending the traditionally Eurocentric remit of Comparative Literature (16, 13). The purpose of this new approach is to facilitate intercultural understanding, but of a particular kind:

If we seek to supplement gender training and human rights intervention by expanding the scope of Comparative Literature, the proper study of literature may give us entry to the performativity of cultures as instantiated in narrative. Here we stand outside, but not as anthropologists; we stand rather as reader with imagination ready for the effort of othering, however imperfectly, as an end in itself. ... This is preparation for a patient and provisional and forever deferred arrival into the performative of the other, in order not to transcode but to draw a response. Believe me, there is a world of difference between the two positions. In order to reclaim the role of teaching literature as training the imagination – the great inbuilt instrument of othering – we may, if we work as hard as old-fashioned Comp. Lit. is known to be capable of doing, come close to the irreducible work of translation, not from language to language, but from body to ethical semiosis, that incessant shuttle that is a ‘life’. (Spivak 13)

Several points in this statement warrant unpacking for their relevance to my exploration of the ‘planetary’ lives of Warrulan and Victoria.

Firstly, Spivak distinguishes her advocated position from that of an anthropologist: one is, for the most part, in the presence of the literary and historical record, not living persons, and must approach material as a ‘reader with imagination ready for the effort of othering’. Deferred ‘arrival into the performative of the other’, then, is an imaginative engagement – an engagement using ‘the imagination as an inbuilt instrument of othering’ – with global southern textual performances of identity and ways of knowing by (or indeed about) the other. ‘Othering’, here, is a positive thing: appraising, by means of the imagination, the full complexity (and part incommensurability) of cultural difference. But one of my major points is that this instrument itself has a history which impacts on its positive capacities. Hence it is principally by working through this history – which is also the history of my own ‘inbuilt instrument of othering’ – that more positive processes of othering can begin. It is as much as to say that it is not by the reduction of differences to typicality, but at the extremity of what one can know of one’s own culture where ‘other’ cultures of this world are to be encountered; and where striving to understand the relationship between the global north and global south can be made good.

On Victoria’s planet, Warrulan was Victoria’s subject at its antipodes; the extreme opposite of her sense of self as an active agent and monarch because his own subjectivity could only be modernized through external management; he had no true mental controlling impetus of his own. On the planet of our contemporaneity, I am Warrulan’s subject at the Antipodes, inverting the imaginative othering which Spivak sees as the vital function of planetary literary study, reaching out to something wholly other, such that I can attempt to run its partially incompatible system through my heady hardware, alongside more familiar programmes. These mutually opposed systems of knowing run deep, but also superficially, all around the surface of the globe. I have undertaken this trial run from a position of privilege: Warrulan through coercion and necessity. But that this is the case should not undermine the fact that Warrulan’s was a critical condition; nor that planetarity is as much a matter of mind as of the earth.

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NOTES1 The ship’s safe arrival in Cape Town on 26 February 1845 was noted in the South Austra-

lian Register, Saturday, 10 May 1845, p. 2. 2 In the Illustrated London News article discussed below, the number of ‘natives’ has swelled

to ‘about 200’ (‘Aborigines’ 108). 3 In this article I am generally and deeply indebted to their work. It is also they who identify

Tenberry as ‘Ngaiwong’. 4 This is how the South Australian described their departure from the Port; but colonial Aus-

tralian history is full of stories of Aboriginal Australians making round journeys of remark-able length by foot in the interests of fulfilling obligations to country, visiting relatives or lodging protests.

5 Warrulan’s precise age was unknown, but he is given as 8–10 years old in the Illustrated London News of 14 February 1846, 15–16 in the 30 March 1851 census and 22 at his death on 23 October 1855. Warrulan’s life story has been recounted by a number of histo-rians (see Braithwaite et al. 164–184; Dutton 164–168, 313; Hume 95; and Kass and Kass 398–400).

6 Thus I am building a reading of Tenberry which opposes the way in which European ‘im-ages of Tenberry’ rendered him a ‘relic of the past ... counterpointed by those of his son Warrulan, symbolizing a vision of Indigenous potential’ (Braithwaite et al. 173).

7 Meaghan Morris writes: ‘“Assimilation” in this context was understood in the bodily sense of the term: it did not mean (as it could have) working for social and economic equality and mutual enrichment between Aboriginal and European peoples, but rather the swallowing up, the absorption, of the former by the latter’ (106).

8 Mainstream awareness among non-Aboriginal Australians of such matters was sparked by the popularity of Sally Morgan’s 1987 account of her own family’s experience of child removal (My Place), enhanced by protests surrounding the Bicentenary of the British ‘in-vasion’ of Eora land at Sydney Harbour (1988) and propelled by a Human Rights and Equal Opportunities Commission inquiry and subsequent report into the policies (which were deemed ‘genocidal’ (HREOC 1996)). The reception of the report was inflamed by the refusal of Prime Minister John Howard to apologize for the policies, leading to grass-roots ‘sorry’ movements which in turn eventually impelled a belated but official apology by Howard’s successor, Kevin Rudd, on 13 February 2008.

9 Braithwaite, Gara and Lydon cite Forster’s ward’s name as ‘“Kour” (meaning “The Crow”’)’ (169); Dutton also mentions a child of this name (168). ‘Kour’ may be a differ-ent spelling of the name Koar, referred to in Eyre’s journals: ‘[A]n Adelaide boy about the age of ten, is called by the name of Koar (the crow), from early infancy, but between ten and twelve, after undergoing one of their ceremonies, the name was changed to Man-nara, (which I believe means the crow’s nest)’ (2: 327). Koar, then, might be an alternative name for Warrulan’s fellow South Australian at the meeting with Queen Victoria, a child whom the Illustrated London News calls ‘Pangkerin’ and who was ‘brought over to Eng-land under the care of Mr. Anthony Foster’. (Pangkerin, which may have derived from the word ‘Parnko, an orphan’ mentioned by Eyre in his discussion of traditional names used at Moorunde (2: 327)). The child in Forster’s care is reported as ‘an orphan ... taken out of the “bush”’ who ‘speaks broken English, can read and write, and is as intelligent as the ordinary run of boys of his age’ in the Newcastle Journal in a short article reproduced in several provincial newspapers and in London’s Standard. These included the Standard (3 June 1845), Leeds Mercury (7 June 1845), Northern Star and National Trades’ Journal (7 June 1845) and Glasgow Herald (9 June 1845). But Kour may possibly be the third of the ‘three’ Aborigines reported on board by the South Australian and another charge of Eyre’s, not Forster’s Pangkerin. My attempt to clarify this situation is ongoing.

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10 In Death of a Discipline, Spivak lights on the term ‘planetarity’ to help think about the full implications of acknowledging the planet as a framework for the analysis of human culture which is not only about (and can therefore critique) processes of economic globalization.

11 Carter explores the aesthetic habits and presumptions which shape the archive of jour-nals, maps, letters and publications relative to the discovery and exploration of New South Wales and other Australian colonies. He emphasizes the necessity linguistically to invent spaces before physical occupation, thus placing a high value on rhetoric and representation in his ‘spatial history’ of colonial Australia and exposing the deceptions which inhere to the discourse of imperial history. Even so I am more concerned with those inner processes whereby mental possession is taken of unseen land sometimes before even any processes of inscription have taken place.

12 The legacy of such fantasies is rather, for both Fausett and Arthur, in ‘virtual reality’ tech-nologies (Arthur 138; Fausett Images 193).

13 See note 10.14 The fast-changing nature of this research makes just about every estimation in what fol-

lows contentious. 15 Hiscock suggests the Mount Toba eruption may have motivated this migration (25); Ma-

cintyre hints that plumes of smoke from bush fires may have alerted humans to the exis-tence of the land mass (8).

16 Stringer and McKie write: ‘[J]udging a race or a tribe or a species purely from its tools is a notoriously tricky business. If you categorise Australian aborigines in this way, you might assume from their basic stone kits that they were like Neanderthals, for some of their implements are similar to those of the mid-Palaeolithic period. Yet, while these people may use simple tools, they also have a store of some of the most sophisticated social and religious ideas that anthropologists have ever encountered, with their complex notions of stewardship of ritual land and their mythic creative period, The Dreaming, when spirits were believed to have shaped the land, bringing into being various species and establishing human life. You cannot see that complexity from pieces of stone’ (100–101). On Aborigi-nal Australians’ management and alteration of the Australian natural landscape, see Gam-mage.

17 I am not in possession of this knowledge, needless to say, but I can recognize some of its qualities from its borders (see Henderson ‘Stranger’).

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